Classic Poem

A PANEGYRICAL POEM DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE COUNTESS OF ABINGDON

ELEONORA

As, when some great and gracious monarch dies,
Soft whispers, first, and mournful murmurs rise
Among the sad attendants; then the sound
Soon gathers voice, and spreads the news around
Thro' town and country, till the dreadful blast
Is blown to distant colonies at last;
Who, then, perhaps, were offering vows in vain,
For his long life, and for his happy reign:
So slowly, by degrees, unwilling fame
Did matchless Eleonora's fate proclaim,
Till public as the loss the news became.
The nation felt it in th' extremest parts,
With eyes o'erflowing, and with bleeding hearts;
But most the poor, whom daily she supplied,
Beginning to be such, but when she died.
For, while she liv'd, they slept in peace by night,
Secure of bread, as of returning light;
And with such firm dependence on the day,
That need grew pamper'd, and forgot to pray:
So sure the dole, so ready at their call,
They stood prepar'd to see the manna fall.
Such multitudes she fed, she cloth'd, she nors'd,
That she herself might fear her wanting first.
Of her five talents, other five she made;
Heav'n, that had largely giv'n, was largely paid:
And in few lives, in wondrous few, we find
A fortune better fitted to the mind.
Nor did her alms from ostentation fall,
Or proud desire of praise; the soul gave all:
Unbrib'd it gave; or, if a bribe appear,
No less than heav'n, to heap huge treasures there.
Want pass'd for merit at her open door:
Heav'n saw, he safely might increase his poor,
And trust their sustenance with her so well,
As not to be at charge of miracle.
None could be needy, whom she saw, or knew;
All in the compass of her sphere she drew:
He, who could touch her garment, was as sure,
As the first Christians of th' apostles' cure.
The distant heard, by fame, her pious deeds,
And laid her up for their extremest needs;
A future cordial for a fainting mind;
For, what was ne'er refus'd, all hop'd to find,
Each in his turn: the rich might freely come,
As to a friend; but to the poor, 't was home.
As to some holy house th' afflicted came,
The hunger-starv'd, the naked and the lame;
Want and diseases fled before her name.
For zeal like hers her servants were too slow;
She was the first, where need requir'd, to go;
Herself the foundress and attendant too.
Sure she had guests sometimes to entertain,
Guests in disguise, of her great Master's train.
Her Lord himself might come, for aught we know,
Since in a servant's form he liv'd below:
Beneath her roof he might be pleas'd to stay;
Or some benighted angel, in his way,
Might ease his wings, and, seeing heav'n appear
In its best work of mercy, think it there,
Where all the deeds of charity and love
Were in as constant method, as above,
All carried on; all of a piece with theirs;
As free her alms, as diligent her cares;
As loud her praises, and as warm her pray'rs.
Yet was she not profuse; but fear'd to waste,
And wisely manag'd, that the stock might last;
That all might be supplied, and she not grieve,
When crowds appear'd, she had not to relieve:
Which to prevent, she still increas'd her store;
Laid up, and spar'd, that she might give the more.
So Pharaoh, or some greater king than he,
Provided for the sev'nth necessity;
Taught from above his magazines to frame,
That famine was prevented ere it came.
Thus Heav'n, tho' all-sufficient, shows a thrift
In his economy, and bounds his gift:
Creating, for our day, one single light;
And his reflection too supplies the night.
Perhaps a thousand other worlds, that lie
Remote from us, and latent in the sky,
Are lighten'd by his beams, and kindly nurs'd;
Of which our earthly dunghill is the worst.
Now, as all virtues keep the middle line,
Yet somewhat more to one extreme incline,
Such was her soul; abhorring avarice,
Bounteous, but almost bounteous to a vice:
Had she giv'n more, it had profusion been;
And turn'd th' excess of goodness into sin.
These virtues rais'd her fabric to the sky;
For that, which is next heav'n, is charity.
But, as high turrets, for their airy steep,
Require foundations, in proportion deep;
And lofty cedars as far upward shoot,
As to the nether heav'ns they drive the root:
So low did her secure foundation lie,
She was not humble, but Humility.
Scarcely she knew that she was great, or fair,
Or wise, beyond what other women are,
Or, which is better, knew, but never durst compare.
For to be conscious of what all admire,
And not be vain, advances virtue high'r.
But still she found, or rather thought she found,
Her own worth wanting, others' to abound;
Ascrib'd above their due to ev'ry one,
Unjust and scanty to herself alone.
Such her devotion was, as might give rules
Of speculation to disputing schools,
And teach us equally the scales to hold
Betwixt the two extremes of hot and cold;
That pious heat may mod'rately prevail,
And we be warm'd, but not be scorch'd with zeal.
Business might shorten, not disturb her pray'r;
Heav'n had the best, if not the greater share.
An active life long oraisons forbids;
Yet still she pray'd, for still she pray'd by deeds.
Her ev'ry day was Sabbath; only free
From hours of pray'r, for hours of charity:
Such as the Jews from servile toil releas'd,
Where works of mercy were a part of rest;
Such as blest angels exercise above,
Varied with sacred hymns and acts of love;
Such Sabbaths as that one she now enjoys,
Ev'n that perpetual one, which she employs
(For such vicissitudes in heav'n there are)
In praise alternate, and alternate pray'r.
All this she practic'd here; that when she sprung
Amidst the choirs, at the first sight she sung;
Sung, and was sung herself in angels' lays;
For, praising her, they did her Maker praise.
All offices of heav'n so well she knew,
Before she came, that nothing there was new;
And she was so familiarly receiv'd,
As one returning, not as one arriv'd.
Muse, down again precipitate thy flight:
For how can mortal eyes sustain immortal light!
But as the sun in water we can bear,
Yet not the sun, but his reflection there,
So let us view her, here, in what she was,
And take her image in this wat'ry glass:
Yet look not ev'ry lineament to see;
Some will be cast in shades, and some will be
So lamely drawn, you'll scarcely know 't is she.
For where such various virtues we recite,
'T is like the Milky Way, all over bright,
But sown so thick with stars, 't is undistinguish'd light.
Her virtue, not her virtues, let us call;
For one heroic comprehends 'em all:
One, as a constellation is but one,
Tho' 'tis a train of stars, that, rolling on,
Rise in their turn, and in the zodiac run:
Ever in motion; now 't is Faith ascends,
Now Hope, now Charity, that upward tends,
And downwards with diffusive good descends.
As in perfumes compos'd with art and cost,
'T is hard to say what scent is uppermost;
Nor this part musk or civet can we call,
Or amber, but a rich result of all;
So she was all a sweet, whose ev'ry part,
In due proportion mix'd, proclaim'd the Maker's art.
No single virtue we could most commend,
Whether the wife, the mother, or the friend;
For she was all, in that supreme degree,
That, as no one prevail'd, so all was she.
The sev'ral parts lay hidden in the piece;
Th' occasion but exerted that, or this.
A wife as tender, and as true withal.
As the first woman was before her fall;
Made for the man, of whom she was a part;
Made to attract his eyes, and keep his heart.
A second Eve, but by no crime accurs'd;
As beauteous, not as brittle as the first.
Had she been first, still Paradise had bin,
And death bad found no entrance by her sin:
So she not only had preserv'd from ill
Her sex and ours, but liv'd their pattern still.
Love and obedience to her lord she bore;
She much obey'd him, but she lov'd him more:
Not aw'd to duty by superior sway,
But taught by his indulgence to obey.
Thus we love God, as author of our good;
So subjects love just kings, or so they should.
Nor was it with ingratitude return'd;
In equal fires the blissful couple burn'd;
One joy possess'd 'em both, and in one grief they mourn'd.
His passion still improv'd; he lov'd so fast,
As if he fear'd each day would be her last:
Too true a prophet to foresee the fate
That should so soon divide their happy state;
When he to heav'n entirely must restore
That love, that heart, where he went halves before.
Yet as the soul is all in ev'ry part,
So God and he might each have all her heart.
So had her children too; for Charity
Was not more fruitful, or more kind than she:
Each under other by degrees they grew;
A goodly perspective of distant view.
Anchises look'd not with so pleas'd a face,
In numb'ring o'er his future Roman race,
And marshaling the heroes of his name,
As, in their order, next to light they came:
Nor Cybele with half so kind an eye
Survey'd her sons and daughters of the sky —
Proud, shall I say, of her immortal fruit?
As far as pride with heav'nly minds may suit.
Her pious love excell'd to all she bore;
New objects only multiplied it more.
And as the chosen found the pearly grain
As much as ev'ry vessel could contain;
As in the blissful vision each shall share
As much of glory as his soul can bear;
So did she love, and so dispense her care.
Her eldest thus, by consequence, was best,
As longer cultivated than the rest.
The babe had all that infant care beguiles,
And early knew his mother in her smiles:
But when dilated organs let in day
To the young soul, and gave it room to play,
At his first aptness, the maternal love
Those rudiments of reason did improve.
The tender age was pliant to command;
Like wax it yielded to the forming hand:
True to th' artificer, the labor'd mind
With ease was pious, generous, just, and kind;
Soft for impression from the first, prepar'd,
Till virtue with long exercise grew hard:
With ev'ry act confirm'd, and made at last
So durable as not to be effac'd,
It turn'd to habit; and, from vices free,
Goodness resolv'd into necessity.
Thus fix'd she Virtue's image, that's her own,
Till the whole mother in the children shone;
For that was their perfection: she was such,
They never could express her mind too much.
So unexhausted her perfections were,
That, for more children, she had more to spare;
For souls unborn, whom her untimely death
Depriv'd of bodies, and of mortal breath;
And (could they take th' impressions of her mind)
Enough still left to sanctify her kind.
Then wonder not to see this soul extend
The bounds, and seek some other self, a friend.
As swelling seas to gentle rivers glide,
To seek repose, and empty out the tide;
So this full soul, in narrow limits pent,
Unable to contain her, sought a vent,
To issue out, and in some friendly breast
Discharge her treasures, and securely rest:
T' unbosom all the secrets of her heart,
Take good advice, but better to impart.
For 'tis the bliss of friendship's holy state,
To mix their minds, and to communicate;
Tho' bodies cannot, souls can penetrate.
Fix'd to her choice, inviolably true,
And wisely choosing, for she chose but few:
Some she must have; but in no one could find
A tally fitted for so large a mind.
The souls of friends like kings in progress are;
Still in their own, tho' from the palace far:
Thus her friend's heart her country dwelling was,
A sweet retirement to a coarser place;
Where pomp and ceremonies enter'd not,
Where greatness was shut out, and bus'ness well forgot.
This is th' imperfect draught; but short as far
As the true height and bigness of a star
Exceeds the measures of th' astronomer.
She shines above, we know; but in what place,
How near the throne, and Heav'n's imperial face,
By our weak optics is but vainly guess'd;
Distance and altitude conceal the rest.
Tho' all these rare endowments of the mind
Were in a narrow space of life confin'd,
The figure was with full perfection crown'd;
Tho' not so large an orb, as truly round.
As when in glory, thro' the public place,
The spoils of conquer'd nations were to pass,
And but one day for triumph was allow'd,
The consul was constrain'd his pomp to crowd;
And so the swift procession hurried on,
That all, tho' not distinctly, might be shown:
So, in the straiten'd bounds of life confin'd,
She gave but glimpses of her glorious mind;
And multitudes of virtues pass'd along,
Each pressing foremost in the mighty throng,
Ambitious to be seen, and then make room
For greater multitudes that were to come.
Yet unemploy'd no minute slipp'd away;
Moments were precious in so short a stay.
The haste of heav'n to have her was so great,
That some were single acts, tho' each complete;
But ev'ry act stood ready to repeat.
Her fellow saints with busy care will look
For her blest name in fate's eternal book;
And, pleas'd to be outdone, with joy will see
Numberless virtues, endless charity:
But more will wonder at so short an age,
To find a blank beyond the thirtieth page;
And with a pious fear begin to doubt
The piece imperfect, and the rest torn out.
But 't was her Savior's time; and, could there be
A copy near th' original, 't was she.
As precious gums are not for lasting fire —
They but perfume the temple, and expire:
So was she soon exhal'd, and vanish'd hence;
A short sweet odor, of a vast expense.
She vanish'd, we can scarcely say she died;
For but a now did heav'n and earth divide:
She pass'd serenely with a single breath;
This moment perfect health, the next was death.
One sigh did her eternal bliss assure;
So little penance needs, when souls are almost pure.
As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue;
Or, one dream pass'd, we slide into a new;
So close they follow, such wild order keep,
We think ourselves awake, and are asleep:
So softly death succeeded life in her;
She did but dream of heav'n, and she was there.
No pains she suffer'd, nor expir'd with noise;
Her soul was whisper'd out with God's still voice;
As an old friend is beckon'd to a feast,
And treated like a long familiar guest.
He took her as he found, but found her so,
As one in hourly readiness to go:
Ev'n on that day, in all her trim prepar'd;
As early notice she from heav'n had heard,
And some descending courtier from above
Had giv'n her timely warning to remove;
Or counsel'd her to dress the nuptial room,
For on that night the bridegroom was to come.
He kept his hour, and found her where she lay
Cloth'd all in white, the liv'ry of the day:
Scarce had she sinn'd in thought, or word, or act;
Unless omissions were to pass for fact;
That hardly Death a consequence could draw,
To make her liable to nature's law.
And, that she died, we only have to show
The mortal part of her she left below;
The rest (so smooth, so suddenly she went)
Look'd like translation thro' the firmament,
Or like the fiery car on the third errand send.
O happy soul! if thou canst view from high,
When thou art all intelligence, all eye,
If looking up to God, or down to us,
Thou find'st that any way be pervious,
Survey the ruins of thy house, and see
Thy widow'd, and thy orphan family:
Look on thy tender pledges left behind;
And, if thou canst a vacant minute find
From heav'nly joys, that interval afford
To thy sad children, and thy mourning lord.
See how they grieve, mistaken in their love,
And shed a beam of comfort from above;
Give 'em, as much as mortal eyes can bear,
A transient view of thy full glories there;
That they with mod'rate sorrow may sustain
And mollify their losses in thy gain.
Or else divide the grief; for such thou wert,
That should not all relations bear a part,
It were enough to break a single heart.
Let this suffice: nor thou, great saint, refuse
This humble tribute of no vulgar Muse;
Who, not by cares, or wants, or age depress'd,
Stems a wild deluge with a dauntless breast;
And dares to sing thy praises in a clime
Where vice triumphs, and virtue is a crime;
Where ev'n to draw the picture of thy mind
Is satire on the most of humankind:
Take it, while yet 'tis praise; before my rage,
Unsafely just, break loose on this bad age;
So bad, that thou thyself hadst no defense
From vice, but barely by departing hence.
Be what, and where thou art: to wish thy place.
Were, in the best, presumption more than grace.
Thy relics (such thy works of mercy are)
Have, in this poem, been my holy care.
As earth thy body keeps, thy soul the sky,
So shall this verse preserve thy memory:
For thou shalt make it live, because it sings of thee.